


An Ever Fix'd Mark

by kingess



Series: A Thing of Beauty [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingess/pseuds/kingess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac cheats. Jehan copes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Friends of the Abaisse I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/900259) by [elementalmystique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalmystique/pseuds/elementalmystique). 



> As with All My Loving Thoughts on Thee, this is compliant with/inspired by Elementalmystique's tome of a fic, but it's not necessary to read that to understand this.

When Courfeyrac returns home, Jehan is dozing on the couch with a throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl and his feet stuffed between the cushions of the couch to keep them warm. It is a little chilly in the apartment, which granted is how Jehan prefers it because it promotes cuddling, but Courfeyrac doesn’t like the idea of Jehan being chilled and sleeping alone in the cold, so his first order of business is to turn up the thermostat in the kitchen.

But in the kitchen, he finds the table set and candles burning down to stubs. There are two plates set, though both are covered in foil with a dish-towel on top to keep them warm and there’s a bottle of champagne that he knows Jehan has been saving for a special occasion.

The guilt that Courfeyrac has been feeling all day intensifies ten-fold. How could he have done this? How could he have done this to  _Jehan_  of all people? Not for the first time today, he feels sick to his stomach and he entertains the thought of just leaving and coming back later when he’s put some distance between himself and what he did.

But he knows he can’t do that.

It was bad enough that he doddled around all day and refused to come home even though his last class let out at three. It was pathetic and cowardly, but he’s felt pathetic and cowardly ever since he woke up this morning in another man’s apartment. In another man’s bed. In another man’s arms.

He adjusts the thermostat and blows out the candles on the table. He doubts very much that either of them are going to want to sit down to a romantic dinner after what he has to say.

Only he has no idea how to say what needs to be said.

He cheated. He got drunk and got carried away and he cheated. And the fact that he feels awful, the fact that he hasn’t been able to eat all day does nothing to change the fact that he’s the world’s biggest screw-up, because even though he’s a flirt and even though he has a reputation for playing fast and loose, he knows—he  _knows_ —that Jehan is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And now he’s gone and ruined it.

He sits down on the couch next to Jehan and tugs on the blanket so it covers more of the thin poet. He looks so peaceful, so content and Courfeyrac can’t stand the idea of waking him up only to dump his sins on his boyfriend’s lap.

Besides, Jehan needs the sleep. Finals week is next week, and while for the rest of Les Amis (save Enjolras who systematically starts studying and stressing about finals weeks before anyone else) that means that their stress and work-load is starting to double  _now_ , for Jehan it’s just ending.  He’s an English and Classics major and all of his classes this semester—all of them, not just the usual two or three—opted for a final paper in lieu of a final test. Four eight-to-ten page papers and a creative writing portfolio that Jehan struggled with for the entire semester because part of being a creative writing minor means that he has to take classes on writing things  _other_  than poetry, but his brain doesn’t think in prose.

For the past two weeks, these papers and that portfolio have been all-consuming for Jehan, and Courfeyrac was content to be in the background for a bit—the silent, stable, non-demanding boyfriend who is largely around for support and to make sure basic bodily needs are met—while Jehan worked. He knows he’s not the only person in Jehan’s life who’s been neglected because of school work. He knows that Jehan spent most of Thanksgiving break holed up in his parents’ home, trying to revise short stories and flash fiction into something he feels is at least  _readable_. He knows that Jehan’s been bringing his laptop to meetings at the Musain so he could research and work on papers and at least appear supportive to the rest of the group.

This morning, the last of Jehan’s papers was due and last night, Courfeyrac received a text from Jehan around five in the evening apologizing profusely and saying that he’d be spending the night holed up in the library trying to finish this paper.

Which was how Courfeyrac found himself bar-hopping with Grantaire—who, like Jehan, was a humanities major but who, unlike Jehan, didn’t have as many papers, and even if he did he didn’t quite care about them—and that’s how he found himself completely wasted and returning the advances of another man without a single thought about his dear poet holed away in a library.

Not that he blames any of this on Jehan. He doesn’t need to be doted on all the time, he doesn’t need Jehan to devote himself completely to Courfeyrac’s needs and desires, and he likes that Jehan is so passionate about his poetry because it’s part of what makes him Jehan.

No, this whole mess falls solidly in the square of his-own-fault, and he’ll take responsibility for it.

He sits on the floor near Jehan’s head and spends the next half-hour just listening to his boyfriend breathe because he doesn’t know what’ll happen when Jehan wakes up and he doesn’t know if this is going to be the last time he’ll have an opportunity like this.

When Jehan does wake, he greets Courfeyrac by carding his fingers through his hair and placing a kiss against the back of his neck. He wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s shoulders and rests his head in the crook of his neck.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. His voice is warm and golden with not an ounce of accusation or doubt. “You never answered my texts.”

“My phone died,” he says, because that’s an easier thing to say than admitting that he’s been reading all of Jehan’s texts but has been unable to come up with a replies.

He feels guilty for lying—even about such an innocent thing.

“When did you get home?”

 “Not too long ago.”

 “You should’ve woken me up,” he says. Courfeyrac can feel Jehan’s smile against his skin. “I’ve had dinner waiting on the table for ages.”

 “I shouldn’t have stayed out so late.”

“It’s no big thing,” he says. He pulls away from Courfeyrac and sits up, and Courf cranes around to look at him. His hair is mussed from sleeping and one side of his face is decorated with tiny red ridges from having his face pressed against the throw pillow for so long. “C’mon, let’s eat. I’ve got good news and I’ve been dying to break into that champagne.”

He gets to his feet and holds out his hands and pulls Courfeyrac upright and he must see something—some sign of guilt or depression or general angst—on his face because he cocks his head to the side and asks, “Is everything all right?”

For a moment, Courfeyrac seriously considers lying to him. Lying and telling him that, yes, everything is fine and pretending that he didn’t wake up in another dude’s arms. He’s a pretty good liar. He knows he’d be able to pull it off, at least for a little while, but he can’t bring himself to lie to Jehan. Not about something like this. He knows that lying is something hard for Jehan to forgive. He knows that some douchebag broke Jehan’s heart when they were in high school because the stupid idiot couldn’t stop lying—and it wasn’t about anything big like cheating or anything, just dozens of daily lies about why he had to bail on a date or why he couldn’t attend any of Jehan’s music recitals.

Courfeyrac has known the poet long enough to know that a betrayal of words is the worst sort of betrayal for Jehan, who puts so much stock and faith in his own words that he expects everyone else to treat them with the same reverence.

So no. He won’t lie to Jehan about this. He’ll rip his boyfriend’s heart in two, but he won’t lie about it.

“Before we eat,” he says, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Jehan sits back down on the couch. “What’s wrong? Is everyone okay? Is—”

“Everyone’s fine,” he says, grateful that he can at least assure his boyfriend of that. He sits down, angling his body toward Jehan. Their knees almost touch. “This is…this is different. I…last night…” He leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands. How could he have done this?

 Jehan’s hand on his arm is gentle and reassuring. “Please don’t hide from me. What happened last night? You know you can tell me anything.”

“I screwed up, Jehan.” The words are wrenched from his mouth. “I fucked up.”

 Jehan squeezes his arm. “You’ll feel better when you tell me what happened. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

He shakes his head. He can’t do this. He can’t break Jehan’s heart like this. His throat is tight and he doubts he’d be able to speak even if he wanted to.

Which he doesn’t.

Jehan moves closer so that they’re sitting right next to each other, practically on top of each other, and he gently pulls Courfeyrac’s hands away from his face. “Please, baby,” he says. “Don’t hide from me. Just tell me what happened. We can make it better.”

He looks up at Jehan and it kills him that there is nothing but concern and love in his grey eyes.

He owes Jehan the truth. Jehan deserves the truth.

“Last night I went drinking with Grantaire,” he says slowly, steadily. He’s trying to ease himself into this, but it still feels excruciating. “And I drank more than I usually do.”

 Jehan stays silent, but he’s cradling Courfeyrac’s hands in his own. He gives his hands a gentle squeeze of encouragement to keep talking.

What on earth did he ever do to deserve such a perfect man? Perhaps it’s best that their relationship is ending now, just a month or so shy of two years. Jehan deserves so much better than him. “I got drunk,” he continues. “And I know that’s no excuse—I  _know_  that, Jehan, I do—but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Hell, I wasn’t thinking at all, but another guy started flirting with me. And I started flirting back.” He freezes for a moment and Jehan is looking up at him with wide eyes and Courfeyrac knows that even now Jehan is not prepared for the words that are going to come out of his mouth. “We ended up sleeping together, Jehan. I spent the night with him.”

"What?” Jehan’s voice is nothing but disbelief and confusion.

“I am so,  _so_  sorry,” Courfeyrac says. “I never meant for this happen. I never wanted to hurt you like this, I swear. I just…I got carried away. And it’s pathetic and I never should have put myself in that situation in the first place, and I swear, if I’d been at all capable of rational thought, this wouldn’t have happened. I never wanted to do this to you. I love you. You know I love. I’m so sorry.”

Jehan’s staring at some spot on the ground, like he’s seeing something deep and profound that Courfeyrac can’t possibly understand, and his hands are limp in his lap. For a long moment, he’s silent, just staring, like he’s trying to process what he’s just heard and it’s not making sense. And even though Courfeyrac knows better than to pressure Jehan into talking before he’s ready, he’s dying to for Jehan to say something. Anything. He needs to know where they stand. He needs Jehan to be angry so they can work through that anger together.

He needs something to hold onto.

After a few minutes, he cracks. “Jehan, baby,  _please_  say something.”

It’s another minute before Jehan looks up at him, and the look in his eyes is absolutely devastating. Jehan has always had expressive eyes, window-to-the-soul eyes. And right now, his soul looks wounded and broken and Courfeyrac feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest.

How could he have done this?

“Did I do something wrong?” Jehan asks. His voice is small and timid and hurt.

Courfeyrac wants to double over with the pain those words cause him, but he can’t. He won’t. It’s his own fault he’s in this mess. He doesn’t get to feel hurt and wounded because this is his fault and his job right now is to help Jehan. “No, baby, no,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. You’re absolutely perfect. This is my fault, okay? This isn’t because of anything you did or failed to do. I screwed up and I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you that enough. I feel wretched, I—”

 He cuts himself off because he doesn’t feel like he has the right to complain about himself and his own feelings right now. This needs to be about Jehan. This needs to be about giving Jehan what he needs right now. He reaches out to touch Jehan’s shoulder, wanting to offer physical support because he knows how important that is to Jehan, but Jehan draws back when he touches him and Courfeyrac lets his hand drop beside him.

It feels like there’s a bullet hole in his chest and he’s slowly bleeding out. How could he have done this? How could he have hurt Jehan like this? He’s never hated himself so much before.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because it’s all he can think to say. “I swear, Jehan, I’ll never do this again. I’m so sorry. What do you need from me?”  _What can I do to fix this?_

 Jehan shakes his head, still wearing that sad, lost expression that has Courfeyrac’s stomach twisting in knots. “I need to think,” he says. Slowly he scoots away from Courfeyrac and then he stands up. “I want to be alone.”

Courfeyrac nods. “Is there anyone you want me to call? Anything you want me to do?”

For a split second, anger flashes in Jehan’s eyes. “You could try sitting here and not fucking whatever guy you might happen upon.”

Courfeyrac knows he deserves it, knows he deserves the ire and the anger, but his heart still breaks because he knows Jehan hardly ever talks like that, and only ever when he’s upset.

And it kills him to see Jehan upset.

But he nods. “I can do that,” he promises.

 Jehan cuts him one last look, this one more hurt than angry and retreats to their bedroom in silence.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the truth is out, Courfeyrac panics.

Courfeyrac sits in silence in the living room, listening for sounds of life from the bedroom, but he doesn’t hear anything. Whatever Jehan is doing in there, he’s doing it quietly. He gets up, goes to the kitchen, puts the food away.

Jehan said he had good news. Courfeyrac wonders if he’ll ever get to hear what that is.

He pulls a bottle of beer from the fridge, goes back to the living room, sits down. After a couple sips, he’s back on his feet and pouring his beer down the drain because stupid alcohol is what got him in this situation in the first place. He does the dishes. He cleans the counters. In the living room, he tries to make sense of the various library books and stacks of printed articles Jehan has left lying around, tries to organize them and stack them neatly.

He handles one of Jehan’s moleskin notebooks with particular reverence and sets it on the end table next to a picture of them from Halloween as though he’s building a shrine for his love.

He pulls out his phone, scrolls through the contacts. Tries to call Combeferre, but promptly hangs up once the phone is ringing. He thinks about calling Grantaire, who will gladly go drinking with him again, but dismisses the idea. He waters the basket of flowers—he wishes he knew the names of them—hanging by the window and pulls out his phone again.

This time he doesn’t hang up when he calls Combeferre because for the last hour, a sort of panic has been settling in his chest because now that Jehan _knows_ what happened last night, Courfeyrac is terrified that this isn’t something he’s going to be able to smooth over and that he’s ruined his whole life and while Jehan might need time alone, he really needs someone to sit down and hold his hand and tell him it’ll be okay.

When Combeferre answers, all Courfeyrac can spit out is, “I fucked up. I need someone to talk to. Can you come over please?”

Combeferre agrees readily and Courfeyrac tells him to meet him outside the apartment because he really doesn’t want to disturb Jehan at all.

On the steps outside his apartment, Courfeyrac tells Combeferre all the gruesome details of what he’s done and he doesn’t choke back on the self-loathing because he’s not afraid to share it now that Jehan can’t hear him. Combeferre listens to him quietly, without judgment.  He doesn’t offer any of the useless platitudes— _Jehan’ll forgive you, things will work out, everything will be okay_ —which is good because Courfeyrac doesn’t want to hear them.

Combeferre does put his hand against Courfeyrac’s back and says, “You did the right thing by telling him.”

And that helps a little, but it doesn’t erase the fact that he did the _wrong_ thing by screwing up in the first place.

At the end of the conversation, when Combeferre insists that Courfeyrac either go back inside or come back to his apartment because it’s dark now and freezing cold, he says, “We’ll help you both through this.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I don’t need the help, I don’t deserve it. Give your help to Jehan. He’s the one who needs it.”

“You’re both my friends,” he responds, “And you’re both hurting. We’ll help you both.”

With that promise in hand, Courfeyrac returns to his apartment. He presses his ear against the bedroom door, and when he hears nothing, he figures Jehan must be asleep again. He takes the throw blanket from the couch—it’s Jehan’s favorite blanket—and eases the bedroom door open.

The lights are off, but the blinds are open, letting in enough street light for Courfeyrac to see Jehan asleep on their bed—Jehan’s bed, he corrects himself, because he knows he has no right to claim that spot anymore. He’s sprawled on top of the covers, with a near-empty box of tissues near one of his hands. Courfeyrac drapes the blanket over Jehan’s prone body and he wants to lean in and press a kiss to his forehead but he refrains.

He’s about to leave when he spots a scrap of paper on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picks it up and in the dim light, he can see just enough to make out Jehan’s handwriting.  Now that he’s looking for them, he can see a couple more scraps of paper, all looking like they were ripped from the same full sheet. Jehan must have been writing, which bolsters Courfeyrac’s faith in their relationship because he knows that Jehan wouldn’t waste words and writing on something he didn’t believe in.

He follows the trail of scraps, picking up each one and tucking it into his pocket. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with scraps. It feels like an intrusion to think of reading them, but he wants to keep them. He wants to have faith that they can work things out between them. The trail of scraps leads him around to Jehan’s side of the bed, which is closer to the window because he likes being closer to the fresh air, and on the floor between bed and the window he sees two of Jehan’s notebooks lying open with chunks of pages ripped out. A pile of torn paper rests nearby.

His heart stops.

Jehan keeps a series of notebooks, all systematically organized. One notebook for copies of his favorite poems by other poets. One notebook for his morning pages—free writing that he does every morning to kick start his mind. A handful of pocket-sized moleskin notebooks of ideas and turns of phrases and word play that he thinks of during the day. In their spare bedroom, there’s a stack of old notebooks that contain drafts and re-drafts and half-written poems. And there’s also a smaller stack of nicer, cleaner notebooks wherein he transcribes finished poems because he feels that a handwritten poem has more soul than a typed one.

On the floor in front of him is Jehan’s morning pages notebook, and also his current notebook of finished poems.

He’s on his knees in an instant, trying to fit the scraps of paper together in any shape that makes sense. Because scraps of a poem draft promised hope, but scraps of finished poems and morning pages says nothing but despair. Enough light filters in through the window at this angle that he can even read some of the words.

Poems he knows are about him. Morning pages that recount small details of their life together. At one point he finds a list. Jehan’s fond of lists. Lists get him thinking, he says. If he can write a list, he can write a poem, he says. The list is titled “Ten Things I Know” and every single item on that list reads “Henri Courfeyrac loves me.”

And now it’s ripped and fragmented and tear-stained and Courfeyrac wants to die.

He gathers all the pieces together in as neat of a pile as he can, and he stuffs them between the covers of the notebooks and he cradles them in his arms as he takes them from the room, as though he’s rescuing abandoned kittens from a collapsing building. He takes them to the kitchen where he turns on the light and sets both ruined notebooks on the kitchen table, where he can spread them out and see the damage really done.

He knows this is a gross invasion of Jehan’s privacy, but it feels like his heart is breaking when he looks at the ruined poems and he wants them to piece them back together and fix them with scotch tape as though that will somehow repair the damage he’s done.

As he starts sorting through the scraps, he notices that among the wreckage is at least one piece of computer paper with typing on it, instead of just the thin notebook paper covered in Jehan’s handwriting. Curious, he pulls out the scraps of the computer paper first and he tries to piece it together.

It’s a letter.

_Dear Mr. Prouvaire,_

_Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that the following poems have been accepted for publication in Publisher’s Lunch_

Courfeyrac sits back in his chair and reads through the poem titles. He recognizes all five of them and knows at least three of them are about him. He hadn’t known that Jehan had started submitting his poems for publication. He is normally so secretive about his poetry and it’s only been in the last year or so that he’s started sharing his not-for-school-assignments poems with his friends. He knows, though, that at least one of Jehan’s creative writing professors has encouraged him to submit— _“To national journals,” Jehan says, recounting the conversation, “not just to student ones. This would be professional.”_ —but he also knows that Jehan has been treating that decision heavily, as he does wherever his poetry is concerned. Submitting—and more importantly, opening himself up to systematic rejection—is something he wanted to do when he felt ready, not when other people were pressuring him into it.

The hurt Courfeyrac might have felt at not knowing Jehan had taken this step is drowned under the thrill and pride he feels that the poems have been accepted.

This must have been Jehan’s good news.

He swallows the bitter taste in his mouth because he doesn’t get to share the news with Jehan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan reacts.

Jehan wakes up early in the morning, but he’s always been something of a morning person. He loves the quiet time just before dawn when the world is still and he can be alone with his thoughts.

But this morning being alone with his thoughts means remembering his conversation with Courfeyrac last night. He remembers every detail of the conversation. There’s no slow easing into it as he wakes. Once he opens his eyes, he can feel the twisting in his stomach and the hollowness in his heart. His head hurts and his eyes are itchy and puffy from crying last night, but he knows it’s pointless to try to go back to sleep now.

He pushes himself out of bed and sees the tell-tale signs that Courfeyrac had been in to check on him during the night. His favorite throw blanket on the bed, the fact that his ruined poetry and notebooks had been cleaned up. He supposes that he should be pleased that Courf still cares enough to look in on him, but mostly he’s pissed that he had the nerve to come in here when he asked to be alone.

Interesting. Last night he was sad, but this morning anger seems to have settled in its place.

He drags himself into the bathroom and takes a long shower, spending enough time under the spray of water—trying to process, trying to think, trying to feel anything but anger and resignation—that the scalding water turns cold.

He’ll go home early, he decides. It’s not like he and Courf can both stay here, not right now. And while he knows that absolutely any of Les Amis will take him in (or Courfeyrac in if he wants to be petty and kick him out) without hesitation, he doesn’t like to feel that he’s making his friends pick side. Besides, his mother is expecting him home at the end of this week anyway for winter break. Showing up six days early won’t be an issue.

Except she’ll want to talk about it.

Maybe he should just check into a hotel for the rest of his life. He could stop thinking there. Stop coping. Stop feeling.

He gets out of the shower when he notices that he has goosebumps on his arms. He gets dressed in his favorite jeans and a sweater that’s too-big but warm. He doesn’t bother combing or braiding his hair because that’d take too much time and if he’s lucky he can be out of the apartment before Courfeyrac wakes up. He twists his hair into a sloppy bun and pulls a hat over it so it doesn’t freeze when he goes outside. He indiscriminately shoves clothes into a duffel bag, not really caring what he’s grabbing because it’s not like he plans on seeing anyone other than his family over the break and he really doesn’t care what he wears around them.

His coat is draped over the arm chair in the corner of the room, along with the lilac scarf Courf got him for his birthday. He hesitates for a moment before deciding to leave the scarf.

When he tries to slip out of the apartment, he notices that Courf isn’t asleep on the couch and he figures that he must have spent the night somewhere else. Combeferre’s and Enjolras’s, maybe. Possibly Marius’s place. Since he doesn’t have to worry about waking Courf, he goes into the kitchen to grab a beer because he’s already decided that he’s taking a cab all the way home—the cost be damned because he can certainly afford it—and he wants to be drunk enough when he gets home that he’ll be able to talk to his mom without crying over the place.

But the kitchen isn’t empty and Courfeyrac didn’t spend the night somewhere else.

He spent the night hunched over the kitchen table, trying to piece together the remains of Jehan’s notebooks from the look of it. He feels a rush of sympathy for Courf— _he cares about my poetry_ —followed immediately by a rush of betrayal— _how dare he read my notebooks, my poetry without my permission_. But Courf is still asleep so he walks to the fridge and grabs a beer.

After a moment of hesitation, he grabs a second one.

The sound of the fridge closing is enough to stir Courfeyrac from sleep.

“Are you leaving?” Courf asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

He looks devastated and heartbroken and Jehan forces himself not to care, not to feel. This is why he wanted to leave early because he can’t think straight whenever he looks at Courf.

“I’m going home early,” he says, tucking the beer bottles into his bag and fishing out his phone so he can text a cab service.

Courf nods. “Jehan, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Are we…is this the end of it?”

“Fuck, Courfeyrac, I don’t know,” he says. “I just…I don’t, okay? I need to think and I can’t do that here, so I’m going home. I don’t want you to call or text me. I don’t—”

And then he remembers that Courfeyrac lives on the same effing street as him. He sighs.

“I don’t want you coming over either, okay? I can’t have you around right now.”

Courf nods and for once it seems like he’s lost for words.

Jehan adjusts the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and says, “I’ll come find you when I’m ready to talk about this.”

And he leaves the apartment even though he knows his cab won’t be there yet.         

Between waiting for the cab and the slow process of navigating the busy city streets, it’s a while before they’re out of the city and on the way to the suburb where Jehan grew up. But it is a Thursday morning, which means the streets aren’t nearly as congested as they could be on the weekends and it’s not even eight when the cab pulls in front of his childhood home. He thrusts a wad of cash at the cabby, not caring that he’s over paying, and he heads home.

He’s already drank both his beers by now, and while that’s not enough to make him drunk, it’s more than enough to take the edge off the pain in his heart.

It’s also enough to make him hope that his parents are still asleep because he’s barely nineteen and still two years away from being allowed to legally be drunk, and while his parents might be lenient about his behavior, he knows showing up tipsy at the house in the early hours of the morning when no one was expecting him is going to be enough to cause concern.

He lets himself into the house and kicks off his shoes by the front door, something his mother trained him to do from a young age when it became clear that he was going to be spending most of his life traipsing around in gardens and fields of wild-flowers and getting mud on his shoes. He dropped his duffel bag next to his shoes because this was home and it smelled like his mom’s cinnamon candles and he suddenly feels like crying again because this is a place where he’s always been able to find comfort and safety and he wants that so desperately right now.

He heads straight for the informal living room in the back of the house and face-plants on the sofa. It’s shorter than he remembers, or maybe he’s taller, but either way his feet in mismatched socks hang over the armrest, but he doesn’t care.

He’s not sure how long he’s laying there unnoticed when his dad walks in with a, “What the—Jehan?”

Jehan turns his head so he can look at his dad. He can’t bring himself to smile even though he feels like he should. “Hi,” he says.

“You scared the crap out of me,” he says. “What are you doing home? Don’t you have finals this week?”

“I don’t have finals this semester, just papers and I turned in the last one yesterday.”

His dad nods. “I thought you’d stay in the city with Courf and the rest of your friends.”

Jehan tries to mask it, but he feels a look of hurt and betrayal and anger cross over his face, and his dad recognizes the look. He walks over and sits on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “What’s happened, Jehan?” he asks.

“Courf cheated on me.”

His dad’s face has always been expressive and he can read the emotions as they cross his face. Shock that Courfeyrac would do that. Anger that Jehan’s been hurt. Resignation and sympathy because clearly Jehan doesn’t need anger right now. He rests his hand on the back of Jehan’s head. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

He does know that.

So he stays.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any sort of grammatical/punctuation/general errors. I'm coming down with something and my brain is feeling kind of fuzzy, so I didn't do a last proofread of this chapter. Unless the something I'm coming down with kills me, the next chapter will be up on Friday.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre wades into the wreckage of his friends' relationship and tries to help.

Combeferre has been home from school for a few days before he goes to visit Jehan. Word of Jehan and Courfeyrac’s almost-but-not-quite breakup spread quickly through the Amis, though Combeferre’s not sure how it happened. After he’d talked to Courfeyrac on Wednesday night, Comebeferre had told Enjolras—mostly because the four of them have been friends since childhood and it seemed natural to inform Enjolras of what happened.

Enjolras’s reaction was more or less what Combeferre had expected, considering his father’s long history of affairs and infidelity. Anger that Courfeyrac had screwed up something so perfect. Anger that Jehan had been hurt in the process, because none of them can stand the idea of Jehan suffering even though Jehan would be the first to tell them that suffering means being human and he would be the last to shirk from suffering.

Combeferre probably shouldn’t have been surprised when Enjolras’s righteous anger at the whole situation found an outlet in the form of Grantaire when the Amis met together at the Musain one last time before departing for the holidays. All it had taken was one comment about Grantaire ordering celebratory drinks for all of them and Enjolras said something along the lines of “I think Grantaire’s caused enough damage by ordering drinks.” The argument escalated fairly quickly, as things often did between Grantaire and Enjolras, with Enjolras’s implications that Courfeyrac wouldn’t have cheated if Grantaire hadn’t taken him drinking and Grantaire’s insistence that Courf was a grown man and should have known when to stop drinking (and one comment about how Courf wouldn’t have cheated if Jehan had been meeting Courfeyrac’s needs—which Combeferre is certain he only said because he’s used to playing the devil’s advocate where Enjolras is concerned and not because he actually believes that because (1) everyone can see how madly in love Courfeyrac and Jehan are and (2) Grantaire and Jehan have always gotten on well).

Combeferre was convinced that Grantaire was about to punch Enjolras—not for the first time—when Courfeyrac got fed up and barked at both of them to mind their own business and that this entire mess was his fault and no one else’s.

The outburst was so uncharacteristic of Courferyrac that it had cooled Enjolras’s and Grantaire’s argument instantly.

But even before that argument, the rest of Les Amis had known what transpired between Courfeyrac and Jehan, and Combeferre doubted Enjolras or Courfeyrac had told anyone about it.

But it is all moot point, he supposes as he knocks on the Prouvaire’s door. It doesn’t matter who found out and how. What matters is that each of his friends gets the support they need right now. He comes to the Prouvaire’s under the pretense of bringing over a plate of his mother’s Christmas cookies (having made sure that there were more of Jehan’s favorite molasses cookies than any of the others) and he hopes that once he’s inside the house that Bernadette will let him see Jehan, because Jehan hasn’t answered any of his calls or his text messages and he’s worried.

Enjolras had wanted to come along, but his anger over the matter was still too close to the surface ( _“How could Courf have done that to him?” Enjolras had snapped just an hour ago when Combeferre mentioned that he was planning on visiting. “What did Jehan do to deserve this?”_ ) and they both know Jehan well enough that an outburst of anger is the last thing he needs right now.

He smiles when Bernadette opens the door. “My mother has baked us out of house and home,” he says. “As usual. I thought I’d bring some by.”

Bernadette smiles at him—her smile has the same tenderness that her son’s does—and she takes the plate from him. “Come on in,” she says. “I know you only came from down the street, but the weather’s awful. I was just making some tea. Please have some before you leave.”

He steps inside when she pulls the door open for him, and he kicks dries his shoes off on the rug and wipes off the melted snow drops from his glasses. “That sounds wonderful.” He follows her back to the kitchen and asks, “Is Jehan around? I was hoping to see him.”

She glances over her shoulder at him. “I suppose you know all about what happened between him and Henri?”

He thinks he probably knows more than she does, but thinks it would be rude to say as much. “Courf called me and told me everything.”

She nods and once they’re in the kitchen, she pours him a cup of tea and he cradles it in his hands to warm his fingers.

“Jehan’s still very upset by the whole matter, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she says, and not for the first time, Combeferre is grateful for how open the Prouvaires are when it comes to discussing matters of the heart. “We’re trying to give him the space he needs to come to terms with everything, but I think he could use someone to talk to.”

He nods. “I just want him to know that whatever’s going on between the two of them, his friends still stand beside him. If he doesn’t want to talk about anything, that’s fine. I just want him to know that we’re here for him.”

“I’ve always liked you, Luc. You’re a good friend to him,” she says, looking on him with tenderness that only mothers can manage. “He’s back in the greenhouse.”

He knows that being told Jehan’s current location is the same as getting permission to go seek Jehan out. He raises his cup to Bernadette as a sign of thanks and heads out back to the Prouvaire’s greenhouse. They’re not the only family in the neighborhood with a greenhouse, but Combeferre is pretty sure they are the only one’s willing to pay the money to keep theirs properly heated and well-lit in the winter. More than once, Courfeyrac has made jokes about the Prouvaire greenhouse being the perfect place to grow marijuana.

In the greenhouse, he finds Jehan pruning back some roses. His hair isn’t braided and looks a little disheveled as it hangs around his shoulders. He’s not wearing gloves and his hands are covered in dirt and more than a few scrapes from the roses’ thorns. The scratches aren’t serious (though he can still hear Joly in his head rattling off the dangers of exposing open wounds to dirt) and it makes Combeferre smile a little to see Jehan’s hands like this, because for as long as Combeferre’s known him, his hands are rarely clean. There’s either dirt on his hands and under his fingernails from working in a garden or ink—particularly on the blade of his pinky on his left hand—from writing.

 Jehan looks up at him when he hears him approaching. He quickly turns his attention back to the flowers. “What did you have to bribe my mother with to find out where I was?” he asks.

“My mother’s been baking.”

“Of course,” Jehan says, sounding weary.

“I made sure to bring extra molasses cookies,” Combeferre says.

“I told Courf I wanted to be left alone.”

“I’m not Courf,” Combeferre says. “And I’ve been worried. I wanted to come see that you’re okay. You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

“I’m ignoring everyone’s calls.”

“The others tried calling?” He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone is fond of Jehan—it’s impossible _not_ to be fond of Jehan—and he knows their friends are worried. It’s not like him to sequester himself away from the like this.

“Cosette called over the weekend,” he says. “She found out from Marius and wanted to check up on me. Feuilly called on Monday. Ever since then, I’ve turned my phone off and I don’t intend on turning it back on until next year.”

“The conversations go that poorly, then?”

Jehan swears under his breath when he pricks another finger on a thorn. “With Feuilly, I just felt like crap the whole time because I didn’t even think to ask if he had anywhere to go over Christmas and that was even before this whole mess started, and there he is being all concerned for me while I’m off having a pity-party.”

Combeferre thinks that Jehan has every right to be a little self-pitying at the moment.

“And with Cosette,” he runs his hand through his hair and sighs, “I ended up shouting at her because she wouldn’t let the damn subject drop when I told her I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Which was probably tantamount to scarring for Cosette because Jehan rarely gets angry at anyone and his temper can be terrifying when he does. But Cosette also hasn’t known Jehan as long as Combeferre has, and she probably didn’t realize that for Jehan “I don’t want to talk about it” isn’t code for “Keep trying.” Jehan needs to take his time to think things over before he’s ready to talk.

Combeferre hopes it’s been long enough. “Do you want to talk about it now?” he asks, leaning against a table covered in pansies across the aisle from Jehan.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Jehan shakes his head and Combeferre moves onto another question, looking for something easier and more neutral to lead into the conversation he wants to have.

“Have you talked to your parents about what happened?”

“I told them,” he says. “That Courf cheated, but that’s it.”

“Why haven’t you talked to them about it?” It’s an honest enough question because Jehan has always had a very open and easy relationship with both of his parents.

“Because what would I say?” he snaps, slamming his pruning shears down on the table. He turns around and Combeferre can see the devastation on the poet’s face. “That Courf has ripped my heart right out of my fucking chest? That in the same minute I can swing between wanting to sit in a corner and cry and wanting to punch his teeth in?”

“That might be a good start,” Combeferre says evenly. He wanted to provoke this sort of reaction out of Jehan, because he knows that once Jehan starts talking he’ll keep talking his way through whatever’s on his mind, but it still breaks his heart to see his friend in so much pain.

“I can’t think. I can’t sleep. I can barely force myself to eat. Every night, I try to go to bed and all I can think of, all I can see is Courf with _someone else_. Touching someone else, kissing someone else. Doing all the things that he’s only supposed to do with _me._ And it makes me want to be sick—literally sick, Ferre. I’ve slept by the toilet twice this week because I wake up from nightmares of Courf fucking someone else and all I want to do is puke.”

He drags his hands through his hair again. “And I can’t even write anything to help me make sense of anything because my brain is too jumbled. I sit down to try to free write and all I can think is _Courf cheated_ , _Courf broke my heart_ , _Courf is a dirty rotten bastard_ , _Courf is beautiful and perfect_ and he lit up my life and he made me feel complete and now I’m broken and discarded and it hurts so damn bad.”

His voice cracks as he speaks and Combeferre forces himself to remain still, to not interrupt. By his own admission, Jehan hasn’t been able to get this off his chest yet when he so obviously needs to.

“And then I swing from just wanting _die_ because maybe then this won’t hurt so fucking much to wanting to cause him as much pain as I can. I want to go out and sleep with everyone, with _anyone_ and I want him watch so he’ll know how this feels. I want to make him watch as someone else touches me and kisses me and brings me to the brink of pleasure to show him what he’s lost. I want him to hurt. I want him to watch as I rip out his heart.”

“Courf feels awful—”

“Don’t,” Jehan snaps. “Don’t apologize for him. Don’t write off his mistakes just because he feels bad about it. That doesn’t excuse what he did!”

“No one thinks that, Jehan.”

“Oh yeah? I know how people think about him, how people feel about him. It’s okay that he cheated because he’s always been a bit of a flirt and it’s not like he did it deliberately! I should forgive him because he feels bad about it, and his guilt is _obviously_ proof that he’ll never do it again and his guilt is his way of atoning for the pain he caused me, and I’m being stubborn and rude and childish by not just forgiving him already. It’s my fault we’re on the outs because I don’t love him enough to forgive him for having a one night stand. It’s my fault that our friends have to pick sides between us because I won’t accept his apology.”

“Jehan, no,” Combeferre says. “That’s not how it is at all.”

His body convulses once like he’s choking back a sob. “And I know you’ll all take his side because he’s _Courfeyrac_ and everyone loves him. It’s impossible not to love him.”

“Jehan, listen to me—”

“And why shouldn’t you take his side? You’ve known him longer than you’ve known me. You were his friend before you were mine.”

Combeferre reaches forward and takes Jehan by the shoulders because he can’t listen to his friend talk like this for a moment longer. “Jean,” he says, using the poet’s given name instead of the preferred nickname, knowing it will catch his attention. “ _None_ of us approve of what Courfeyrac did, okay? We all know that he’s in the wrong here, and _none_ of us are picking sides between you. This isn’t some sort of battle. We’re not building barricades between the two of you and shooting each other down, okay? You will _always_ have our love and support. You understand that, don’t you?”

Jehan nods, even though the movement makes him look even more fragile, and he blinks the tears away from his eyes. “Do you know the worst part is?” he asks quietly, taking a step back.

Combeferre let’s go of his shoulders and allows him to lean against the table with potted roses. “What?”

“I knew this would happen. I always knew this would happen.”

“You knew Courf would cheat on you?”

“I knew Courf wouldn’t stay,” Jehan says. He grips his right wrist with his left hand and it looks painful, but it also looks like he’s trying to anchor himself, like he’s trying to give himself something to hold onto. “He’s never been able to stay entertained by one person for very long. In high school, he was always jumping from one crush to another because he falls out of love as quickly as he falls into it. I _knew_ I wouldn’t be enough for him. I knew he’d get bored with me and find someone else. He promised me he wouldn’t break my heart, but I always knew that one day he would. But it’s been two years and—I don’t know, I got hopeful. Maybe this time it’d be different. Maybe I could be enough for Courf. But I’m not. I’m obviously not, and it’s killing me, Ferre, because I love him with everything I am. There was nothing more I could have given him—he already has my heart and my soul and my body—and I can’t—”

“Jehan, stop. You’re hurting yourself,” Combeferre says, stepping forward and trying to uncurl Jehan’s left hand from his right wrist. Somewhere in the middle of his dialogue, he had dug his fingernails into the fleshy underside of his wrist and Combeferre’s worried that he’ll make himself bleed. It takes some work, but he gets him to let go. He cradles Jehan’s wrist in his hand and rubs it trying to overload the nerves a little to take away the worst of the pain.

Jehan stares at his wrist for a moment before looking up at Combeferre. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“Have you talked to Courf about any of this? About how you never thought you’d be enough for him?” Combeferre doesn’t think that any of them ever realized that Jehan has these sort of insecurities when it comes to Courfeyrac because the two of them have always seemed perfect for each other. Having watched the two of them together for two years, Combeferre knows how much they both love each other. It’s impossible to miss if you watch them. They gravitate to each other and they’re each stronger, brighter, warmer when the other is around.

 Jehan shakes his head. “I could never find the words,” he says.

“You should talk to him,” Combeferre says. It will break Courfeyrac’s heart to know that Jehan has been harboring these doubts, but if they don’t lock each other out, Combeferre’s pretty sure they can heal each other’s hearts too.

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” he says.

“Just tell him how you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know if…I don’t know if I want to stay with him. I don’t know if I can just leave myself open this kind of pain again.”

Combeferre nods. “You don’t have to stay together if that doesn’t feel right to you,” he says. “If you’re not sure you can forgive him and learn to trust him again, if you think he might hurt you like this again, you can break up with him. It’ll hurt like hell, but we’ll support your decision. Whatever you feel is right for you, Jehan, we’ll support that. We’ll support you. You’re not in this alone, but you need to do what’s right for you.”

 Jehan nods. Combeferre thinks he still looks too fragile.

“If you do decide that it’s best to break up with Courf,” he says, “or that you both need some time apart, you’re always welcome at mine and Enjolras’s place, okay? I’ll even get him to clear out the spare room since he’s adopted it as his own personal office. You’re not alone, okay? You can stay with us as long as you need to.”

He nods again. “I just…I still need to think.”

“You have all the time you need.”

“Enjolras wouldn’t mind if I stayed with you guys for a while?”

“Of course not,” he says. Because even though he made this offer without consulting Enjolras, he knows that Enjolras would do anything for Jehan.

“I need to think,” he says again. “But thanks for coming by. I just…I needed someone to listen.”

Combeferre smiles. “This is what friends are for,” he says. “If you ever need to talk, I’m always available. Just take care of yourself while you’re thinking things over, okay? And don’t be ashamed to ask for help if you need it.”

Jehan’s lips twitch. “How often have you given Enjolras this little speech?”

He laughs. “More often than I should have to. For such a brilliant guy, he can be awfully dense sometimes.”

“He’s too busy taking care of other people to take care of himself.”

“That he is,” Combeferre says. “I should probably head out. I told my mother I was only going to be dropping off the cookies and she wants my dad and me to help hang up Christmas lights tonight.”

“Tell your family I say _hi_ ,” Jehan says. “Enjolras too.

Combeferre promises that he will and gets Jehan to promise once more that he’ll take care of himself. As he leaves, he prays that when Jehan does decide to talk to Courfeyrac about all of this that they’ll be able to mend the rift between them. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courf and Jehan talk it over.

Classes start tomorrow morning and Courfeyrac still hasn’t seen or heard from Jehan. He came back to the city a few days ago and he’s been grateful that some of the other Amis are back in town as well, because he knows he wouldn’t have been able to stay alone in this apartment, agonizing over what was happening between him and Jehan.

He knows he deserves every bit of agony he feels. It’s nothing, he’s sure, compared to what Jehan’s been suffering through, but not knowing what’s happening to them, to their relationship is killing him. Combeferre’s the only one to have any sort of reasonable conversation with Jehan and he wouldn’t reveal the details of that conversation to him. (Not that he expected him to. Jehan has every right to confide in Combeferre and expect to have that confidence respected.)

But classes start tomorrow and he doesn’t even know if Jehan is coming back for those. He’s been cut off from him for nearly three weeks now and it kills him. He wants nothing more than to hold him in his arms and grovel for forgiveness. He knows he doesn’t deserve it and he’s been beating himself up about it during the entire break, but he just wants to see Jehan again. He wants to see him with his own eyes and know that even if Jehan decides he’s done with him—which would kill him, but he wouldn’t fault Jehan for it at all, not even a little bit—that Jehan will be all right in the end. That his heart will heal.

That he hasn’t done irreparable damage to his beloved poet.

Combeferre has only been able to reassure him that Jehan will come talk to him when he’s ready, but that’s not much of a reassurance. He knows that Jehan won’t come back until he’s thought through all of his options, until he’s given careful consideration to each of the choices before him and their consequences. Jehan has always been the one to think things through where Courfeyrac would just rush in blindly.

And isn’t that what got him into this mess in the first place?

He knows his friends are all still upset with him—and he can’t blame them because he’s the only heartless enough to hurt Jehan—but they’re at least still making time for him. They’re still welcoming him into their lives and their hearts and even Enjolras, who was perhaps the most upset with his actions (and again, Courfeyrac doesn’t blame him for that at all because he grew up with Enjolras and he watched alongside him as his father had affair after affair and he saw what that’s done to his mother), has made time for him and has listened to his concerns about Jehan.

But the support of his friends isn’t enough right now because what he really needs is Jehan. He needs Jehan to tell him what he needs to do to make this better—or at the very least what he can do to make things easier for him, because he knows that this might be something that he simply _can’t_ make better.

He’s in the bathroom, trying his best to clean if only to keep his mind off Jehan, when he hears the door to the apartment unlock. Enjolras and Marius both have spare keys, but he knows both of them would knock before walking in. Which means Jehan’s come home.

Courfeyrac is on his feet and in their living room before Jehan has had time to shut and lock the door behind him. He looks up when Courfeyrac slides to a halt on the wood floor.

“You came back,” he says, breathless.

Jehan hasn’t moved away from the door and he doesn’t move to take off his coat or his shoes or his hat. His hair is braided, but there are no flowers, and his skin is a little too pale and the dark circles under his eyes are a little too pronounced, but all Courfeyrac can think is that Jehan is absolutely _beautiful_ and he’s a fool for ever daring to hurt such a perfect person.

“I told you I would,” he says. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t look at Courfeyrac the way he used to—like he was the one who managed to make the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening—and it hurts, but he still doesn’t care because Jehan is here.

“Are you staying?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “We need to talk before I decide that.”

Talk. Talking is good. Talking means that he can apologize and he can give all the assurances that Jehan needs that this will _never_ happen again. He moves to take Jehan by the hand and lead him to the sofa, but he remembers the way Jehan flinched away from him the last time they talked. “Let’s talk then,” he says. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

Jehan finally steps away from the door and he takes a seat on the armchair in the living room instead of the sofa, putting distance between the two of them. Courfeyrac pushes the hurt aside—he thinks he might let Jehan cut off his balls if that’s what he needs to do to forgive Courf, so not sitting on the same sofa is _nothing_ —and he sits on the sofa so they can look at each other.

“Jehan, baby, I am _so_ sorry. I—”

Jehan holds up his hand, effectively cutting him off. “I need you to listen first, okay?” he says.

“Of course.” _Anything._ He would capture the stars from the sky and give them to Jehan if that’s what he wanted right now.

“I’m still angry,” he says. “And I’m still hurt. You _cheated_ on me, Courf, and it doesn’t matter that it was only a one night stand. You took something that was meant to be just between the two of us and you gave it to someone else—to someone you don’t even know. And I don’t have words to make you understand how that makes me feel, but it’s something like having my heart ripped out and then being forced to watch as you toss it into a fire.” He takes a deep breath as though to steady himself. “But despite all that, I still love you, Courf, but I still—”

“Jehan, I love you,” the words are tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them. “You know that, right? I—”

“Please let me finish,” Jehan says quietly.

“Sorry.” He’s going to spend the rest of his life apologizing to Jehan. He’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of this man.

“I still love,” he says again. “I don’t know if anything will ever change that, but right now I don’t—I _can’t_ —trust you, not like I used to. I have spent the last two years doubting myself and maybe doubting you because I didn’t know if you could ever settle down and be with just one person, and I knew that getting into this relationship and I had hoped that maybe I could be enough for you.”

Courfeyrac bites his tongue to hold back the assurances that of course he was enough. He was more than enough.

“And you sleeping with someone else—that’s dug up all these old insecurities and I don’t….I’m not sure how to move forward from here.”

His lungs feel icy, like he’s not sure if he remembers how to breathe. Jehan’s breaking up with him. Jehan’s decided that he’s not worth the effort and he has every right to make that decision, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

Jehan studies the pattern on the rug beneath his feet for a long moment before he looks back up at Courfeyrac. “I don’t know how to move forward,” he says slowly, “but I still want to try. I don’t know if this is something I can still do. I don’t know if I can learn to trust you right now, but sometimes I feel like I need you more than I need air and sometimes being with you makes me feel absolutely invincible and I think I need that too. For me, that’s worth fighting for. But I can’t fight for this alone, Courf. You need to want this as bad as I do if we have any chance of working through this.”

“Yes,” he says. “Of course I want this. Of course I want you. I will do _anything_ you need me to, I swear it, baby. Anything—it’s yours.”

Some flicker of emotion crosses his face and Courfeyrac knows him well enough to see how hard he’s trying to keep himself together. Slowly, Jehan nods. “I need more than words and promises,” he says. “Right now, I need to understand how this all happened. I need to know what I can do to keep it from happening again.”

“Jehan, this wasn’t your fault—”

“I know it’s not my fault,” he says, “but relationships are about give and take, and they’re about meeting each other’s needs. And I need to know for myself that I am doing everything you need me to do.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head because this all seems to backwards to him. “This isn’t about what I need right now,” he says. “I want to make sure that you’re being taken care of.”

“We can talk about that in a minute,” Jehan says. “But I’m insecure and I’m afraid—and maybe I’ve always been this way—but the only way I can think of combatting that right now is hearing from you what you need from me.”

“I only need you. That’s all I need.”

“Dammit, Courf,” Jehan snaps. “Three things. Just tell me three damn things that I can do for you!”

Courfeyrac focuses on Jehan. He doesn’t understand why Jehan needs this right now. He doesn’t understand why Jehan thinks this is his fault at all. But he does understand that Jehan does need this. He licks his lips. “I’d like it if you came out to parties and stuff with me more,” he says. “I know that’s not really your scene and you can get kind of overwhelmed with them, but it’s always meant a lot to me when you come.”

“Okay,” Jehan says. “What else?”

“I need you to be honest with me when I do something that upsets you,” he says. “Because sometimes I say things I don’t mean and I can be careless and selfish and I know I’ve hurt you even before all this and I always worry that you won’t say anything because you’re afraid of upsetting me.”

“Honesty. I can do that. What else?”

“Share your poetry with me. It scares you, I get that, and I know I don’t really know anything about poetry, but I want you to feel like you can share that part of yourself with me.”

Jehan nods. “That one will…take work,” he says. “Especially right now, but I can try. Is trying going to be enough?”

“Trying will always be enough,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

“I’m not ready to jump back into our relationship where we left it off,” Jehan says.

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac says, even though he’s imagined having great make-up sex several times over the last two weeks. But that can come later.

“Every time I think of being intimate with you, all I can see is you with someone else, and it makes me sick to think that someone else has been with you when you’re supposed to be _mine_. So there’s a lot of stuff I’m not comfortable with right now.”

“Like what?”

“No open mouthed kissing,” he says. “And definitely not anything more than that. That means no sex right now. I just can’t do that yet. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes. I can wait as long as you need me to,” he says. “What are you comfortable with?” Because he wants to know what he _can_ do for Jehan, who has always valued physical affection.

“Beginner kisses,” he says, “and holding hands and hugging. We can share the bed, but I’m not sure I’m okay with cuddling or anything like that. We can test those waters slowly, okay?”

Courfeyrac nods, even though Jehan is taking them to a point that has never really existed between them. Jehan’s always been so affectionate with everyone he cares about and even before they started dating, it wasn’t uncommon for Jehan to snuggle up next to him when they watched a movie together. It’s going to be hard, mostly because he’s so used to just being close with Jehan, but it’s worth it. He looks in Jehan’s eyes and he knows it’s worth it. “You set the speed,” he says. “We can go as slow or fast as you want.”

“I don’t want you drinking when I’m not around,” he says.

Courfeyrac blinks in surprise because he’s been drinking casually since he was a teenager and it never even occurred to him not to do it when Jehan’s not around. “Of course,” he says.

“I know I’m acting like a clingy, petty, jealous boyfriend,” he says, “and I don’t mind if you go out with the others after class or anything, but I don’t want you drinking if I’m not around. I don’t want you to even be in the situation where something like this could happen again—because if this does happen again, Courfeyrac, we’re over and there’s no going back. I’m not going to keep putting myself in a position where you can hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Jehan nods. “And I need you to be patient with me, because I’m all over the place right now. There will be days when everything will seem fine between us, and the next day I might act like you’ve ruined my life. I want to learn to trust you and I want to forgive you, but that takes time, and neither of us can rush this. I’m willing to put in the work that I need to do, but I need to know that you’re going to respect my feelings and that you’re not going to disregard me even if I’m acting stupid and jealous and insecure.”

“You have all the patience and understanding you need from me,” he says. “Just please be honest with me. Let me in enough so I know what you’re feeling. Please don’t lock me out.”

“I need you too much to lock you out,” he says.

“Is there anything else you need to say?”

He shakes his head.

Courfeyrac hesitates before his next question. “Will you let me hug you for a bit?”

Jehan looks up at him practically in tears. “Yes,” he says desperately, as though he’s been drowning and Courfeyrac’s offered him a life-line. “Please yes.”

Courfeyrac tugs him to his feet and wraps his arms around Jehan, trying to pour in as much love and gratitude and affection as he can into the gesture. It just feels so damn good to have Jehan back in his arms, like he was always meant to be here.

 Jehan trembles a little as though he’s crying and Courfeyrac holds him tighter. He’ll never let go. He’ll never hurt Jehan again.

“Do you really think we can work through this?” Jehan asks.

“Yes, baby, I promise—”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Courfeyrac presses his lips against Jehan’s temple. “I promise you that we’ll get through this and we’ll be stronger than ever. I promise.”


End file.
